


no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should

by giucorreias



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Canon Divergence, Depression, His Dark Materials Inspired, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 08:00:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12677718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giucorreias/pseuds/giucorreias
Summary: John's battling against himself when he meets Sherlock. Slowly, he starts to win.





	no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should

**Author's Note:**

> Basically what you need to know to read this fic: people of this universe have a daemon, which is a part of their souls. The daemons manifest on the form of an animal, which it's usually related to the person's personality. Daemons bleed gold. Touching another person's daemon is taboo.
> 
> John's daemon is a greyhound. Her name is Marigold.  
> Sherlock's daemon is a red fox. Her name is Mnemosyne.  
> (Moriarty's daemon was almost a Pinscher. Almost)

John’s own screams wake him up that morning, the clatter upstairs like gunfire—or maybe his dreams. He doesn’t really know, anymore. On the good days, it’s hard to recognize what’s happening inside his mind from what’s happening around him.

This is not a good day.

He gets up from bed—clammy, gross, _tired_ —and searches for his daemon. She’s not sleeping on his feet, like she usually is—a warm presence, a comforting weight, a reminder he’s not alone, never alone, even in hell—, and for a moment he panics, but then his eyes zero on her sleeping form huddled against the door, facing his room’s only window, her posture tense even on her sleep.

This is a bad day.

He limps towards her, the pain on his leg worse than usual. It always acts up, on days like this. John fumbles with his shoes, making some noise, and Marigold wakes.

She growls at him, violent, before sleep leaves her eyes and she recognizes where she is—home, safe—and who she’s growling at.

The first few times that happened, she apologized profusely, ashamed.

This time, she doesn’t apologize. She doesn’t blink. She shakes her body to get rid of her sleepiness, and joins him for their morning walk.

He’s not sure she still feels ashamed. It’s harder to read her, these days. He doesn’t think she should, either.

Everyone has their share of bad nights, even daemons.

 

They walk every morning around the park, The rhythm of John’s cane tapping against the ground the only sound they make.

Gone are the days Marigold would wag her tail at the prospect of taking a long walk.

Gone are the days she wouldn’t shut up about anything.

Gone are the days they could keep up a conversation between themselves about everything, anything—politics, the weather, the world.

Sometimes they stop by the bench next to the statue of the bald man, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes John sits down and watches people walk by and live their lives and wishes he could do the same.

Live, that is.

Sometimes all he can do is survive.

Sometimes he can’t even manage that much.

 

They eat breakfast on a café two blocks down their street.

It’s a good place: it’s clean, it’s cheap, and the food is neither too greasy nor too bland. The woman in the register already knows their order—their names.

She wishes them a good morning with a smile, and John wishes he could smile back.

He doesn’t.  He can’t.

(but he thinks if he stopped—, at least someone would notice)

 

John has a blog. His therapist thinks it does him good.

It has the standard layout and exactly two readers. One of them is his sister, when she bothers to be sober. The other is either a bot or his therapist herself.

He doesn’t post often. The last post was three weeks ago. He promised himself he’d write today, but he gives up after facing the blinking cursor for over two hours. The next day, he tells his therapist it’s because he’s not interested, but that’s a lie.

It’s not that he’s not interested.

It’s that nothing’s interesting.

Marigold doesn’t tell on him. She doesn’t say anything at all. His therapist’s daemon—a fluffy guinea pig, small and unassuming—watches her worriedly.  

It’s a sign, he knows.

He doesn’t care.

But that’s a sign in itself, too.

 

The days bleed together into weeks, and he catches himself thinking it’s been six months since he came back from deployment. He catches himself imagining how this six months would have been if he hadn’t been shot.

It’s not that he misses war—he doesn’t. He still wakes up at night thinking the cars on the street are bullet sounds. He still remembers the empty eyes of the soldiers who lost their daemons. He still dreams of not being fast enough to throw himself in front of that bullet, over and over and over and over.

It’s that he misses feeling useful.

(he misses feeling things other than fear and nothing).

 

John counts the weekdays based on the days he has a session with his therapist. For instance, he knows today’s Tuesday, because tomorrow is Wednesday and on Wednesdays he has a session.

There isn’t anything else to base his weeks on.

 

“You need to move out,” she tells him, voice soft. She’s been at it for two weeks. She thinks the place he’s at is making him worse—the noise, the people, the neighborhood. She thinks he needs a place where he feels safe.

John doesn’t think it matters where he is. He looks at Marigold, who’s resting her head on his lap and has her eyes fixed on the window. Outside, it’s possible to see the shape of the city. They’re on the twelfth floor. John looks back at his therapist and doesn’t say what he thinks, he says:

“I’ll consider.”

 

He considers.

 

“John!” someone calls. He doesn’t recognize the voice, doesn’t turn. He doesn’t think it’s for him—hasn’t spoken to anyone but Harry and his therapist and the woman at the café, since he came back. He sometimes wishes his neighbors a good morning, but doesn’t think they’d call him out on the park.

He hears footsteps behind him and the person touches his shoulder. John jumps. Marigold growls. There’s a long moment of embarrassing silence. It’s Marigold who breaks it, her voice raw, the first thing she’s said in three days.

“Mike.”

Mike invites him to eat something. John’s first instinct is to say no. He doesn’t want to go, doesn’t feel like talking, doesn’t feel like remembering a time he felt different (a time he _felt_ ), but this is the first time Marigold’s said something in three days.

John goes.

 

It ends up not being as bad as he thought it would be. They share a table on the corner: John sitting against the wall and facing the door, Marigold at his feet; and Mike opposite, his daemon, a box turtle, resting on the table with her eyes closed.  John wonders when was the last time he saw a daemon so relaxed (not since before he was deployed).

Mike tells him about his classes and jokes about being fatter (“what did you expect with a turtle as a daemon, huh?”), while John tells him about how hard it is to find a cheap place on a good neighborhood in London.

“Have you thought about getting a flatmate?” Schiller—that’s his daemon’s name, John remembers suddenly—asks, opening her eyes. She hasn’t spoken much, but Marigold hasn’t said anything at all, so John doesn’t take that as a sign of anything.

“Who would want us as flatmates?” he answers and Mike-

Mike smiles.

“You’re the second person to say that to me today.”

 

The man’s huddled against a microscope, and his daemon—a huge red fox—is perched at the table, looking at a microscope of her own. They don’t look up when Mike gets in. They don’t acknowledge his—and John’s—presence in the slightest. Mike doesn’t seem bothered, so John assumes it’s normal behaviour.

Two or three or ten minutes later, the man looks up from the microscope, a frown on his face. He swipes the room with his eyes until he stops at Mike.

“Phone!” he demands, not even a question.

Mike shrugs. Tells him he doesn’t have it on him. It’s a lie, John knows, he’s seen him use it on the café. He wonders why Mike would lie, though not for long, because Marigold chooses this moment to speak for the second time in just a few hours (John’s happy and angry all at once).

“Use John’s.”

John considers denying, but he sees the curious curve of her tail, notices she isn’t checking the room, the windows, the door, and decides it’s not worth it.

He limps towards the man, who turns his head to regard him—and then proceeds to read his whole life out of his appearance.

John’s awed and irritated and a little bit attracted.

 

He considers—the empty and tiny and noisy flat he’s already used to; or this new flat with the rudest (most brilliant) man he’s ever met.

In the end, it’s not a very hard choice.

 

After they move in together, he spends a whole month trying to understand the _consulting_ part of the _consulting detective_ ; watching Sherlock and Mnemosyne skimming the newspaper for murders or taking cases from people who randomly show up on their doorstep. At first he thinks it’s just a name Sherlock uses to sound different, and it’s not until he gets home one afternoon to find Sherlock and a police officer bent over files upon files on the kitchen table that he really gets it.

In a way, it surprises him. John considers himself a good judge of character, and he didn’t peg Sherlock for the kind of person who would help someone—law enforcement, no less—and stay away from the spotlight. He’s the kind of person who likes having his brilliance recognized.

On the other hand, he supposes he can relate to the need of getting rid of the boredom—the nothingness—by any means necessary.

John would do the same thing.

 

Marigold watches while Sherlock paces around angrily, muttering something about meddling people and useless sentiment.

Mnemosyne, on the other hand, watches John with uncharacteristic silence.

John is sitting on the armchair he’s starting to consider his, a book on his hand, pretending to read it (he stays on the same page for about fifteen minutes before he remembers to turn it).

He turns the page, reads the first line. He has no idea what the protagonist is talking about, and he’s half tempted to go back and find out. Mnemosyne snorts. John decides to give up on the farce and lowers his book to regard the fox.

“You don’t really need the cane,” she says and John frowns, confused. He doesn’t know where the comment came from. Marigold lifts her head to regard the fox, too. For a moment, John thinks she’ll say something, but the moment passes and she doesn’t.

“I do,” he answers, “I can’t really walk without it.”

Mnemosyne gives a long suffering sigh John’s beginning to believe means she thinks he’s being stupid and doesn’t say anything else. Sherlock finally snaps out of his pacing and calls his daemon to leave the house, leaving John with no other option other than to going back to his book.

 

When they come back, some two or three hours later, drenched in red and gold, John’s still on the same page.

He immediately gives up on the book and goes check them up for injuries.

His cane stays beside his armchair.

Mnemosyne notices (he doesn’t).

 

“They’re good for you,” his therapist says. John purses his lips.

“He leaves body parts on our fridge in alternating days,” he lifts a finger. “He’s arrogant. He doesn’t eat properly. He has the craziest sleeping schedules.” He lifts two, three, four. “Sometimes he doesn’t speak for _days_.”

“They’re mad,” Marigold agrees. The therapist smiles, as if that proves her point.

It does.

 

“Catch!” Sherlock yells, throwing something at John. John startles, then fumbles with it for a bit, before realizing what it is. A photo. Of a dead body. It’s on a coroner’s table, the chest cavity opened. He looks up to face Sherlock, who seems to be waiting for his reaction.

John looks back at the picture, trying to guess what it is.

“The police thinks it’s natural causes,” Sherlock says, encouraging, a expectant look on his face. It’s a strange look on him. Sherlock’s all boredom and neutrality most days.

“You don’t?” John’s eyes move to analyse the heart. It seems to be the obvious problem, there. Too unhealthy to belong to such a young person.

“It doesn’t _make sense_ ,” he says, exuding frustration. He launches into a detailed description of where she was found and what was around and how everything was too neat and how it was an obvious set up. “The police doesn’t believe me.”

“She might have lost her daemon first,” John points, trying not to let his mind travel back to tents and sand and blood and gunfire. “It would explain the heart.”

Sherlock beams.

“Brilliant!”

And leaves the flat without another word.

 

(He doesn’t manage to catch the killer)

 

Something changes.

Sherlock starts asking for his opinion on cases, showing him an item or describing a scene or taking him to Bart’s so he can look at a bruise or a cut or a broken bone.

It doesn’t take much time for Sherlock to start inviting him to crime scenes.

And John—happily—goes.

 

Sherlock solves a case with a dead body found inside a room with locked doors and windows. It wasn’t suicide, either. He then finds out there’s a fake painting in the National Gallery—and proceeds to uncover a millionaire smuggling operation. John follows him around, giving his opinions, looking impressed.

He doesn’t notice he’s not been using his cane to walk around until he catches Mnemosyne looking at him, smugly.

 

He writes on his blog weekly, about Sherlock and his cases.

He receives so many comments he has given up answering all of them.

He lets Marigold choose which comments to answer.

(More often than not, they answer the ones saying good things about Sherlock).

 

“The freak brought his wife!” Sally says, mocking. The police officer standing on her side and their daemons laugh, while John rolls his eyes. He knows she is being petty because Sherlock makes her feel dumb and because he is better at her job than she is.

John decides to copy Sherlock and go in without answering her, but Marigold decides not to do the same and growls at them, showing her teeth. Sally’s daemon—a dobermann—takes a step back, and John’s about to say something when Mnemosyne comes back from inside the house and sits down beside Marigold, bodies touching.

“If it isn’t dumb and dumber,” she says, voice pleasant. It reminds John of Mycroft. It makes him want to smile. “I thought you’d have found a new job, by now. Leave your spot to someone who’s actually good at solving crimes.”

Sally sputters something, but Mnemosyne turns her back at her and regards John.

“Sherlock wants you to take a look at the body. Don’t take too long talking to them, you don’t want them to make you stupid.”

Marigold doesn’t try to hide her laugh—neither does John.

 

His mood dwindles once he gets inside. It’s a horrible crime scene. There’s a young woman’s body lying on the ground, her face twisted on a painful grimace, a trail of tears on her cheeks. John crouches to watch her more closely. There are no other marks on her body, no physical trauma whatsoever.

He turns her around, carefully, but does not find anything that could indicate how she died. He tells Sherlock as much. When he hears nothing back, he looks at his—friend?—to find him with pursed lips and that look he gets when he’s deep in thought.

(John’s getting better at reading Sherlock’s faces—his eyes. They’re the most expressive part of him)

 

“There’s no golden dust,” Marigold says, sharp as ever, doubtlessly echoing Sherlock's’ thoughts (he nods at her, and John thinks he looks proud).

The whole room holds their breath.

 

“John, take a look at this.” Sherlock points at the heart, but it’s somewhat redundant.

John already knows what he’s going to find.

Still, he dutifully reports what he’s looking at, if only to have Sherlock correct his “mistakes” (John knows the murders disturb him, and that thinking distracts; he knows that Sherlock likes when John’s half-right, half-wrong, so he can seem smarter;

John doesn’t mind).

“If it gets out, we’ll have widespread panic. You remember how it went last time.” Detective Inspector Lestrade—Gregory—crosses his arms, one hand resting tiredly on his face. John notices the dark circles under his eyes, the pallor of his skin, and knows the man won’t be able to keep going like this for much longer, before he crashes.

“Yes.” Sherlock sighs, but John knows he’s not entirely worried about that (Gregory does, too). It’s the puzzle—and the fact he hasn’t been able to stop the man once before—that really bothers him.

 

Sherlock hasn’t slept. He’s been sitting on—John’s—armchair since before John went to sleep. He doesn’t think Sherlock has moved at all, except, perhaps, to give Mnemosyne some space between his legs.

When John walks past her, she blinks blearily at him, but doesn’t otherwise move. Not for the first time, John wonders what does she think about when Sherlock is this unresponsive—if she’s bored.

He turns on the television—on mute, with subtitles—before moving on to the kitchen to get started on his tea and cook some breakfast.

He ends up cooking for two.

 

Two other bodies show up with the same _modus operandi_ , face twisted and body intact and no golden dust in sight.

 

John’s humming a song while he cleans the kitchen, Marigold beside him, holding a cloth with her mouth, silently pointing out what he misses. Sherlock’s reading the newspaper, skimming out the news, pointing out murderers out loud.

“It’s obviously the sister,” Sherlock notes, and then launches into a heated argument with his own daemon on the relevance of knowing the exact time a car takes to cross London and how that means the husband couldn’t have been the murderer. Curiously enough, Mnemosyne doesn’t seem convinced.

It makes John smile.

Once he’s satisfied there is no longer blood on their kitchen and all the fingers that were hidden on the fridge have been disposed of, he sits down to read the news Sherlock cast aside. Mnemosyne, once she tires of the argument and Sherlock goes back to his reading, stops to rest by his feet, a hairs width away—almost touching, but not quite. Her body radiates warm.

John looks at her, who stares back at him with a challenge on her eyes. When he looks up, his eyes meet Sherlock’s, who seems unfazed— if amused.

John decides not to say anything, but doesn’t really manage to concentrate on his reading, afraid he’ll accidentally touch her.

(He doesn’t)

 

(Mnemosyne does it again. And again. And again. Always close enough to _know_ she’s there, never close enough to actually feel.

At some point, he stops being afraid he’ll touch her.

At some point, he almost wishes he would)

 

John’s head is pounding and he has to blink a few times to adjust to the light. He feels heavy and tired. He doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t remember how he got here.

Marigold is not by his feet—and that is how he knows there’s something wrong, even before he notices his hands and feet are bound.

(Marigold hasn’t slept anywhere else but at his feet in _months_ ).

John can feel the edges of a panic attack, so he forces himself to breath in and out, in and out. Panicking won’t help. He needs to keep his calm and find a way to leave this place or survive for enough time for Sherlock to find him.

(He doesn’t doubt Sherlock will find him).

“Did you _know_ that a daemon can survive up to _fifteen seconds_ after their human dies? After that, _poof_ .” A man’s voice says, all exaggerated cheeriness. “ _Fascinating_ , isn’t it?” John’s head shots up, and he has to fight some dizziness. He closes his eyes. Opens them. A humanoid shape is approaching, and keeps talking. “A _human_ , on the other hand, can survive a long time without a daemon. They can even thrive. Work. Walk. _Live_.”

John takes his surroundings. He’s in a public pool. His captor’s crouching in front of him, his daemon—a swan—peaking from behind his arm. Marigold is locked inside an iron cage, not too far away. She has an ugly gash on her face, golden blood dripping down.

“If you take the daemon away, though, _little_ by _little_ ,” he says, his breath hot against John’s face. “The stress is eventually fatal. Curious, no? That a person can deal with their daemon being _dead_ , but not with it being _so far away_ and still _alive_. As soon as the bond breaks,” he snaps his fingers, and John barely manages not to flinch. “They die.”

“You won’t get away with this,” John croaks, braver than he feels. His hands are trembling, though he doesn’t think his captor notices. “Sherlock will stop you.”

The man laughs. It’s a hearty laugh, and it gives him chills.

“He hasn’t managed thus far, _has_ he?” The man says, mocking, then gets up and walks towards Marigold, his swan wobbling after him. “He thinks he’s close, but I have always been a step ahead.” He takes the cage on his arms, and Marigold growls warningly. He smiles down at her before looking back at John. “ _So_ I am giving him an _incentive_ . Let us see how long it takes him to find you… and if it will be fast enough to save your lives. You have such a _beautiful_ daemon, it would be _such_ a shame for her to _disappear_.” He caresses her head, and his touch makes John’s stomach churn.

He closes his eyes to fight the nausea, and when he opens them, Marigold is gone.

He has never felt lonelier.

 

He counts the tiles.

He starts again when he loses count, from the beginning (he deduces they coincide with when they move Marigold further away).

He’s on his fourth try, tile five hundred and seven, when his eyes start to sting and he has to fight the tears. He’s on his sixth try, tile three hundred and thirty eight, when it becomes unbearable—and all he can think about is the fact that his chest burns and _everything hurts_.

John doesn’t even try fight the screams.

 

He thinks he hears Sherlock’s voice, calling his name, but he can’t move, can’t think, can’t respond. He isn’t sure it’s not an hallucination, anyway.

 

When he comes to again, he’s on an hospital room. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to recognize the smell—the noise. There’s a heavy weight on his chest, and when he raises his arm to touch it, he finds fur: Marigold. He opens his eyes to regard her, and she noses along his jaw and licks his face.

“Hey,” he croaks, throat raw. “It’s good to see you again.”

There’s a long stretch of silence and John sighs, disheartened. He fears she’ll return to the Marigold pre-Sherlock—the Marigold that didn’t speak and didn’t laugh and spent her days waiting for something bad to happen.

He touches her face, looking for the gash he had seen earlier, and finds stitches.

 

“I never doubted they’d find us,” she says, minutes later, voice low and serious.

John smiles.

“Me neither.”

 

It’s two hours before he gets any visitors, and John’s disappointed when it turns out to be his sister. It isn’t an entirely good visit—she spends half the time complaining about being worried, and the other half complaining about her wife.

Once she leaves (half an hour later, though it seems so much longer), he’s sure she is going to get drunk. He feels tempted to warn her sister-in-law, but doesn’t.

He’s too tired to meddle on his sister’s life, right now.

(He’s too busy waiting for Sherlock to show up, too).

 

“John,” he says and nothing else. There’s a tense line on his shoulders, a nervous glint on his eyes. He approaches the bed, stops just short of touching him, raises his hand. Drops his hand. Raises it again.

He touches his face carefully, rests his hand on his cheek. John holds his breath, not sure what’s happening. Sherlock kisses him.

(His lips are dry and it’s a bit weird, all teeth and wrong angles. It doesn’t stop John’s heart from beating faster)

“Finally!” Mnemosyne says, from somewhere outside his line of vision. Sherlock moves away, looking startled, eyes wide.

Mnemosyne jumps into the bed, settles beside Marigold, and starts nuzzling her face, carefully avoiding the stitches. Marigold smiles, looking satisfied—and John’s surprised.

Sherlock makes an annoyed noise on the back of his throat, but Mnemosyne doesn’t stop. There’s a long stretch of silence, where Sherlock just stands there, looking spooked and awkward, like he doesn’t know where they stand.

John doesn’t, either, but he’s never known exactly where he stood with Sherlock, so it isn’t a new feeling. He decides not to comment on the kiss, and takes his appearance instead: the wild hair, the wrinkled clothing, the dark circles under his eyes.

John might not be a genius, but he did learn a few tricks along the way.

“Did you catch him?” he asks, moving to the side, careful not to jostle anything, so as to give Sherlock some space to sit on his bed.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, smiles. Sits.

(Then promptly falls asleep)

 

When he’s finally allowed back home, it seems he’s been away for far longer than five days. Everything is exactly as it was before he left—except, perhaps, for the papers and maps and pictures spread all over their floor, the absolute mess on the kitchen.

(And yet, John feels like a completely different person).

 

Sherlock helps him clean everything. It’s weird, in the way that it’s unexpected, because Sherlock has never cared about their living conditions before.

Mnemosyne just watches them, an amused glint on her yellow eyes.

 

John’s own screams wake him up that morning. It takes him some time to remember he’s home, on his own bed, and that the warm weight under his arms is his daemon. John takes some minutes to breathe deeply, trying to calm down his heart.

He hears the beginnings of a melody downstairs—Sherlock playing the violin.

(He’s started doing that whenever John wakes up from a really bad nightmare)

It’s early enough that he doesn’t really have to get up, so he closes his eyes and stays, not really planning on sleeping again (he doesn’t think he can, just yet, the nightmare still fresh on his mind).

There’s the telltale sound of footsteps on the corridor and his door creaks open. He can still hear the violin, so he doesn’t have to open his eyes to know it’s Mnemosyne.

Just like Sherlock, she’s taken to check up on him.

Except she doesn’t stop at the door and moves on, like she usually does. Instead, she gets in, somewhat silently, and jumps on the bed. John opens his eyes and blinks at her.

“Hey,” she says, tentative. John wonders if she thought he’d gone back to sleep and if that’s the reason she got in. He wants to ask her what she’s doing on his bed, but he’s afraid she’ll just leave if he does. So he simply closes his eyes again.

He feels the bed shift, then a furry head leans on his chest.

He pets it.

And notices, too late, it’s not Marigold.

The song stops, abruptly, and there’s a loud noise. Sherlock swears. John takes his hand off, and is about to apologize when Mnemosyne pushes her head against his hand, her chest doing that noise she does—not exactly a purr, but close—when she’s comfortable.

John thinks, fuck it.

Then pets her again.

 

The door creaks open and John opens his eyes to regard Sherlock—red cheeks and tousled hair, breathing heavily.

“Sorry?” John offers, not sorry at all. He doesn’t stop petting Mnemosyne: she’s warm and soft under his hand. Touching her makes his fingers tingle. It’s a good feeling.

Sherlock shakes his head, but doesn’t move from the door. He looks frozen. John feels more than sees Marigold leaving the bed. She walks up to Sherlock, determined, and sits down in front of him. Sherlock looks at her, then at John, then back at her.

“Well?” she asks, head turned to the side. Expectant.

Sherlock crouches. Hesitates. Hugs her.

(And John suddenly understands why Sherlock let his violin fall)

 

“Hey,” John says.

They’re laying side by side on John’s bed, their daemons between them. Sherlock is resting his hand on the top of Marigold’s head, who has her eyes closed.

John’s feeling warm and safe and happy.

Sherlock turns his head to look at him, a hint of a smile on his face, his eyes bright.

John takes a deep breath, heart beating fast. “I love you,” he says. His voice wavers.

Sherlock’s smile widens.

“I know.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [sarah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Hardt/pseuds/Sarah_Hardt) for feeding my addiction to daemon aus and [iamz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sayakaharume/pseuds/sayakaharume) for letting me use her chat to scream. If you want, you can come talk to me on my [ tumblr ](http://giucorreias.tumblr.com/).


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